


Plus Ca Change

by whetherwoman



Category: The Chronicles of Chrestomanci - Diana Wynne Jones
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 10:48:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whetherwoman/pseuds/whetherwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three eras - three Chrestomancis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plus Ca Change

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notannette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notannette/gifts).



> Thank you so much to Kaesa for the terrific beta!

The silence in the dining room was stifling. Benjamin stared down at the dark oak table, putting bite after bite into his mouth. He could hear his grandfather, down at the other end of the table, scraping his knife against the plate as he did the same. It was so different from back home in Boston, with all his sisters around the big table and his father’s booming voice and his mother’s ready laugh, and more different still from the school he’d began to get used to over the last three months, bumping elbows with all the other boys and fighting over each serving of pudding.

“Young Benjamin,” Grandfather said, and Benjamin jumped, fumbling his knife against his plate. He felt himself turning red and stared resolutely at the table.

“Young Benjamin,” Grandfather repeated. “I trust you are doing well at school?”

“Yes—yes, sir,” Benjamin said, clearing his throat.

“Good marks?”

“Yes—mostly, sir,” Benjamin muttered, too honest.

“Hmph, mostly. Well, can’t expect even the best schools to entirely remove all that American breeding in a single term.”

Benjamin bristled. It was one thing to hear from the boys at school, and even from the masters, but from his own grandfather! He stuffed another bite of meat pie into his mouth to keep himself from bursting out with anything shocking, and reminded himself that Grandfather was doing him a tremendous charity by taking him in, that his sisters were no longer outcast because of his magic, that he might even owe Grandfather his life for spiriting him across the ocean.

He snuck a glance across the table at Grandfather, who had one bushy eyebrow raised sardonically as if he knew exactly what Benjamin was thinking. Grandfather waited for Benjamin to chew his large bite, then said, slightly more kindly, “Latin?”

Benjamin swallowed hastily. “Yes, sir. I’m ten lines into Ovid, sir.”

“Hm,” Grandfather said, but Benjamin could swear it was almost approving. “Greek?”

“No, sir, not yet.”

“Hm,” Grandfather said again, definitely disapproving this time.

“They said I was to start after holiday,” Benjamin added, then bit his tongue. Why did he feel a need to impress the old gentleman anyway? He would never approve of Benjamin, that was clear. Not that Benjamin was much used to approval, these days. Benjamin shivered involuntarily as he remembered the ugly look on Reverend Smith’s face, the uglier accusations of witchcraft and evil. He’d heard the whispers of what was happening in Salem, of course, but he never thought savagery like that would come to Boston.

“Archery?” barked Grandfather.

Benjamin jumped, and sat up a little straighter. “Yes, sir, I got a ribbon two fortnights ago. Third in my class and twelfth in the school.”

“Hm,” Grandfather said, nodding. “Only reasonable, I suppose, with your upbringing. Shooting your dinner from the underbrush as they do there.”

Benjamin looked down at his plate, shame and fury and months-old fear turning cold in his stomach. There was nothing he was willing to say, now, to defend the place he’d always called home. Silence reigned over the table.

Grandfather cleared his throat. “And magic?”

“Er. Yes,” Benjamin said. He thought that no matter how long he was here, he would never feel used to talking openly about magic. “Yes, sir, I got top marks in magic.”

“Top marks?” 

Benjamin sat up straighter. “Yes, sir, top of my class. Er, and of the school.”

Grandfather’s eyebrows went up. “You’d had no magical tutelage before?”

“No, sir. I had the copy of _De Occulta Philosophia_ which you’d sent to me, and my father helped me translate a few pages.” It was a fond memory now, although Benjamin had considered it dreary work at the time. 

“Pah,” Grandfather waved that aside. “But you’re first now, are you? I suppose your father wasn’t wrong after all.”

“I--I hope not, sir,” Benjamin stuttered. “I do—I hope—everyone says I seem to be a natural.”

“A natural, eh?” Grandfather’s bushy eyebrows went up, and Benjamin couldn’t help but flush. He knew it was an unforgivable boast, but he couldn’t help what people told him. “Well then, young Benjamin, tell me what you’ve mastered in your short time of study.”

“I—um. I’ve become skilled with fire spells. Candles, and magelights, and putting out and relighting a bonfire, a pretty big one. I can raise a big wind and a small one, small enough to lift only a feather. I can—I’m learning to work with water, I’m quite good at evaporation.”

“Only elementals?” Grandfather said, a wealth of disapproval in his tone.

Benjamin cast around desperately for something that might finally impress the old man. “Oh! I, ah, well, I’ve done a trick for the other boys sometimes. I used to do it at home to give Nettie and Pru a laugh. What I do is make myself two places at once. The boys laugh when first one of me answers, then the other, or if I argue with myself. It’s all an illusion, of course, but the best part is it even fools the masters! They said it’s as if I have more than one life!” Benjamin laughed at the absurdity, but trailed off as Grandfather frowned at him forebodingly. 

“Well,” Grandfather finally said, and put down his knife. “Perhaps you won’t disgrace the name of Allworthy after all.” Benjamin couldn’t help but bristle yet again, but before he could say anything, Grandfather raised his voice and called, “Chrestomanci!”

****

Christopher never meant to get in trouble, precisely. It was more that he didn't put much time into not getting into trouble, or perhaps that some of the things he wanted to do simply happened to be troubling to others. 

Conrad sighed and rubbed his head. "I would have an easier time accepting the purity of your motives, Christopher, if I could imagine any possible reason for you to be in the tree outside Millie's window."

Christopher looked vague and offended. "Really, Grant, you wouldn't have had me leave him up there."

"Oh lord," Conrad said. "You actually took the blame for someone else spying on Millie? That's even less likely."

"Don't be ridiculous," Christopher said. "As if I would let anyone else spy on Millie. Not that I was spying on her either," he said hastily.

"So what's your brilliant excuse, then?" Conrad said.

"Throgmorten,” Christopher said, looking vaguer than ever.

Conrad waited a second. "Yes? And? Throgmorten what?"

Christopher sighed heavily, as if being requested to explain himself was pouring salt in an obviously gaping wound. "Throgmorten was in the tree. I happened to be passing by, and saw that he was clearly unable to get down by himself. I simply felt it was my duty to assist. Especially because you know he would make a racket all night if he had been stuck up there."

"I suppose that makes sense," Conrad allowed cautiously, trying not to grin. "Except that Throgmorten was nowhere to be seen when you were discovered."

"Of course he wasn't," Christopher grumbled. "As soon as I was properly up there, the blasted cat used me as a ladder and jumped down as easy as could be. See here--" He fumbled up his shirt, showing Conrad several long scrapes down his back.

"Clearly of Throgmorten-ly origin," Conrad agreed solemnly. "But Christopher--why were you still up there at quarter to ten?"

Christopher looked, if possible, even more vague, with possibly just a tiny tinge of embarrassment. "I couldn't get down."

"You couldn't get down," Conrad repeated slowly.

"Are you deaf, Grant?" Christopher demanded. "That's what I said."

"You couldn't have floated, or teleported, or even climbed down the same way you came up?"

Christopher fidgeted. "I may have had a small, minor fear of heights that temporarily affected my ability to make decisions with my usual ease."

"So let me get this straight," Conrad said. "You climbed the only tree on the grounds tall enough to see into Millie's window with the perfectly innocent intent of rescuing Throgmorten."

"Yes," Christopher said sulkily.

"Throgmorten then rescued himself while you had a panic attack."

"I didn't have a panic attack," Christopher said indignantly. 

"You were so paralyzed by your _panic attack_ that you couldn't even call for help for—how long?"

"Three hours," Christopher muttered. "It didn't seem so long at the time."

"And when Millie began getting ready for bed?"

Christopher didn't say anything. Then, to Conrad's delight, he slowly started turning red. "I looked away," he said, and cleared his throat.

"Perhaps you even tried to cover your eyes," Conrad suggested.

"That may have happened," Christopher said.

"Which possibly lead to your losing your grip on the tree."

"Possibly," Christopher said loftily. He was still bright red.

"Which is when you fell out of the tree and Millie screamed and everyone came running and found you," Conrad concluded gleefully.

"It was really perfectly innocent," Christopher protested half-heartedly, but barely gave even a token protest when Conrad throttled him.

***

James' fingers moved quickly through the air and the computers around him hummed responsively. He found himself humming back under his breath. He'd never worked with computers like these before--back at home, everything was cobbled together from spare parts, extra pieces of wire, whatever James could find or barter or steal. He pushed that thought aside with his customary feeling of guilt--that was all behind him now. These computers were nothing like he could have hoped for even on his best day. They were cobbled together, clearly prototypes, but the materials were pure, top of the market, and the way they were put together was, frankly, inspired. James knew inspired work when he saw it.

"Who built these?" he asked absently, fingers twitching through the air. He could sense the connections forming, server talking to server, data lining up with other data. He stuck his fingers wherever he could, giving the little extra push it needed for the data to sort itself, the important bits beginning to stick to each other.

"Roger did," Chrestomanci answered, just as absently. He was intently focused on James's work, focus flickering between James' hands and the computers. His eyes narrowed, almost as if he were trying to physically see what James was doing. James almost laughed--nobody could see the internet, how absurd to even think it. James couldn't see what he did himself, nor feel it, precisely. It was more a sense of potential, of knowing where information was and where it could connect. 

Then James froze as Chrestomanci's words connected. "Roger?" he said. "Roger Chant? Who built the robot that plays cricket? That Roger?"

"Don't stop!" Chrestomanci said urgently. "If you can't get all the names now they'll get away get again."

James jerked guiltily and kept going. He was almost there, anyway, password after password cracking open, names and pictures and locations coming together. "Seriously, _the_ Roger Chant made these?" he asked again, only half-believing.

"Yes, Roger Chant," Chrestomanci said, eyes narrowed. "The Roger Chant, from whom you stole two prototypes and half his stores of fiber optics cables, that Roger Chant."

James winced again, but brushed it off. "And aren't you glad I did," he said airily, pushing the last few connections into place. "You never would have found a solution to your little problem if I hadn't come along. There, it's done now."

Chrestomanci rushed at one of the computers like an uncoiled spring, and rapidly typed away at one of the keyboards. Then he went still. "It's all there," he said softly, almost reverent. "Every witch in the whole awful organization, top to bottom. You did what you said you could do."

"Of course I did," James said indignantly. "A little thing like that? It was nothing--" He wobbled, unexpectedly, then would have sat down entirely if Chrestomanci's arm hadn't made it around his waist. Perhaps the spell had taken a little more out of him than expected.

"That was good work," Chrestomanci said, and James found himself flushing unaccountably. He should know better than to take compliments from people like that at face value, but somehow… Even the simplest compliment, coming from Chrestomanci, felt like Chrestomanci saw him. Like when Chrestomanci looked at the work James made, he saw the invisible connections between servers and databases and ones and zeros, and when he looked at James, he didn't see a thief from the slums, he saw--well. He saw James.

James opened his mouth to brush off the compliment, but before he could say anything, Chrestomanci said, "We'll have to keep you here, of course."

James’ mouth hung open.

“We certainly can’t have you running around stealing irreplaceable prototypes,” Chrestomanci said wryly. He guided James to one of the many ornate armchairs that lined the room. “And we must investigate your peculiar form of magic. Perhaps I should call Marianne… We must teach you about dwimmer as well, of course.”

“Of course,” James said faintly. “What if I… what if I don’t want to stay?”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option,” Chrestomanci said. His face took on an expression that on a lesser man could only be defined as mulish. “You see, there’s the matter of your nine lives.”

James gaped. Chrestomanci didn’t look like a liar or a fool. But if James had more than one life, he would have enchanter level magic, not the strange mixture of spells he’d made up or cobbled together. And nine lives? Really?

“Eight at the moment, technically,” Chrestomanci continued. “Which, to be honest, puts you far ahead of me. But all the more reason to keep you here where we can safeguard the remaining ones. With luck, you’ll be Chrestomanci into the next millennium.”

“But—I—no!” James yelped, finally finding his voice. “You’re wrong, you can’t—I’m not an enchanter, I’m just a—a thief and a hacker and—and what if I just want to go home?”

Chrestomanci sat down in the chair next to James, carefully looking across the room. “I think, James, that you have wanted to go home for a very long time.”

James was suddenly immensely grateful that Chrestomanci wasn’t looking at him.

“You’ve been on the streets for three years now?” Chrestomanci continued, appearing to be entirely focused on the computers happily humming away on the other side of the room.

“Four,” James whispered.

“I can’t replace the home you lost,” Chrestomanci said gently. “But I would like to offer you another home. My home. This home.” He paused. James hastily rubbed at his eyes and nose. Chrestomanci added, more cheerfully, “And of course you’re an enchanter. Think about it for a minute—you can feel it.”

James thought about it, and was surprised to realize that he was indeed an enchanter. “I suppose so,” he said. “I guess—I guess I will stay, then.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Chrestomanci said solemnly. “We’ve needed someone who can exorcise the pixies in our wifi.”


End file.
